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The October sky loomed grey and foreboding, casting a dull shadow over the city. A misty drizzle, persistent since the morning, was just now shifting into a proper downpour. John cursed under his breath and dashed under a nearby awning. He was still stubbornly wearing his leather jacket, knowing full well it was bound to get stiff and sticky in the damp weather. It had been two weeks since he and Paul had returned from Paris, and the lads had already given them enough shit for their new haircuts. John wasn’t about to chuck the jacket now and confirm their jabs about going soft on their holiday. Just taking the piss, sure, but their words stayed buried deep under his skin like splinters.
They knew, somehow they knew.
That familiar sick feeling rose up from his chest and into his throat again like bile. He swallowed it down and continued on his way to Forthlin Road, in spite of the rain. Maybe a real downpour was all he needed to wash it all away, and by the time he reached Paul’s door he’d find that nothing had happened, nothing had changed.
John rang the doorbell like a respectable caller. No throwing stones at Paul’s window or climbing the drainpipe today. He still wasn’t sure where they stood now, and if Paul would find that sort of thing charming or too fucking desperate. Jim answered the door, and his face fell into stone at the sight of John. At least some things stayed the same. “John,” he said by way of greeting.
Yeah, well fuck you too. John flashed the sharpest grin he could manage. “Afternoon. Paul in?”
Jim just moved aside and tilted his chin upstairs. John pushed past him with as little deference as possible. He knew it was a victory in itself that Jim let him in at all these days. He smiled at the knowledge that he had forced his way into Jim’s begrudging…acceptance? More like tolerance. John could work with that. He bounded up the familiar stairs with all the force he could muster, hoping the noise would remind that old man why he’d hated him in the first place.
But his playful malice faded into nerve-wracking anticipation as he found the door to Paul’s room. He’d seen Paul since Paris, of course — practice and some gigs and at the pub after. Paul had come by his a few times too, gamely putting up with Mimi’s nosey inquiries on the trip and her barely hidden disdain when he told her that he’d gotten John a hamburger for a gift. It had been years since she’d made any comments to John about being friends with “common types,” as if he were some fucking landed gentry screwing around with the help. But he could feel her biting her tongue since their return, probably harboring some shit about his best mate being a leach.
Still, each meeting had been in the company of others. They’d endured their mates' playful ribbing over their hair, and less good-natured irritation at them having fucked off on paying gigs with no warning. Paul had been warm and happy to see John each time, nothing had changed that others could sense. But John could tell. Paul was avoiding him. And he knew it was his fault.
John swallowed that familiar bitter feeling and knocked on the door. Since when had he last knocked on Paul's door?
“Yeah?” came that familiar voice, sending warmth through John’s chest and limbs. Fuck.
“It’s John,” he said, casually as he could muster.
John heard a guitar being set down as the door swung open. Paul was smiling, but not fully. Not like he had in Paris… before Paris.
John gave him a smile in return as he strode into the room as confidently as he could manage.
“Alright Paul?” He glanced at the guitar leaning against the bed. His heart clenched a bit at the sight. Stupid. Paul could play without him there, lord knows he had before. Nothing new.
Paul nodded, “-s’just tuning. Was going through the setlist for tonight.”
“I was wondering if you wanted to try some writing?” John blurted out, a little too quickly.
Paul stiffened, just a little, but enough for John to notice the change. It confirmed everything he’d been afraid of. That was it, then. He’d cocked it all up so completely. The lad he’d known before Paris would’ve burst into the warmest of smiles at the mere suggestion of writing together. But now Paul was only looking at him in a way John couldn’t read. Disappointment? Fear? Was Paul afraid of him now? Yes, that was it. He was afraid of being alone with him, afraid of what John was, of what he was trying to turn Paul into. And wasn’t that just like our boy Johnny, destroying everything good that came into his life? Because of course Paul didn’t feel the same way. Fucking idiot.
“Actually, I have to make dinner.” Paul suddenly pulled his eyes from John’s and looked aside, reaching a hand to his hair to nervously pull at the ends that now loosely framed his forehead. That was a new habit. “Gotta have it ready before the gig tonight so Da and Mike have something to eat.”
Right. A believable enough excuse. Jim had seemed even more anxious to keep Paul under his thumb since Hamburg, and after Paris it had only gotten worse. Every practice had ended with Paul hurrying off to fetch something for Jim before the stores closed or cursing himself as he left that dinner wouldn’t be done on time again and Da would have his head. Maybe good old Jim knows, as well. You’ve gone and cocked up Paul’s whole life now too, Johnny.
“Okay,” John replied, his voice already cold and distant. “I’ll see you at the Cavern then. Be there at eight.”
He turned to quickly retreat down the stairs, sensing Paul’s gaze burning into his back.
“Wanna head over together?” he heard him call, suddenly sounding small.
“I think I gotta get there too early for your big dinner plans. I’ll see you there,” John replied, adding as much bite as he could summon to his words.
He didn’t look back.
—
The gig had been shit. Not that anybody had noticed. A properly soused and rowdy crowd had helped with that. But John knew his playing was off, and he could hear that Paul’s was too. And their harmonies. God, they’d sounded wretched. Maybe that break from playing in Paris had robbed them of all of their abilities. Probably should’ve just ended the band then like everyone thought they had.
John was still fuming at the bar an hour after they’d left the stage. He’d lost track of how much he’d drunk, considering he’d begun shortly after leaving Paul’s that afternoon. Of course they’d sounded shit.
“I think we were alright,” George piped in from his left. Maybe he was trying to cheer John up? If so he was failing miserably. Perhaps it was just his default monotone, but John couldn’t help but think he was being purposely contrary just to needle him that much more.
Paul, meanwhile, hadn't shown his face since he’d practically fled the stage after their closing number. John knew why. He didn’t want to face him, probably never wanted to see him again at this rate. If Paul left, the band wouldn’t go on. He had no business trying to do any of this without Paul. He certainly wouldn’t be writing music without him. Christ, how had he fucked it up so much? John wanted to tell George to piss off or worse. Burn that bridge while he’s at it. Nothing but the band was keeping George around, and the band was finished. But he felt too sorry about it all to think of anything properly biting, so he buried his nose in his pint instead.
“Hey.” John heard a familiar voice, and warmth shot through him again, followed by a crushing weight as he remembered why he’d drowned himself in so much drink today.
Paul was standing to the left of George, his eyes glancing quickly to John before flying back in panic when he saw him take notice.
“I’m going to the pub for a bit with the lads and a few birds. Thought you might want to pull one. Fancy coming along?”
Paul was speaking only to George, deepening the pit in John’s stomach. George clearly noticed how odd it was, and glanced in confusion at John before nodding. “Yeah okay.” The younger popped up from the bar and followed Paul into the drunken, noisy crowd. John saw him throw a nervous look over his shoulder as he left. Poor kid. He wouldn’t have any trouble finding another band to play with, already had offers lined up, probably, but it would still be hard on him. He couldn’t give a shit about Pete, but George was alright. He didn’t deserve this.
John was suddenly overcome with disgust at what he’d done. How could he ruin something so good, a friendship that had been a lifeline for him, a songwriting partner the likes of which he knew he’d never find again? And all because he wanted more. He was a greedy, sick bastard. Sure, Paul had…seemed to want the same. He’d been the first to…hadn’t he? John couldn’t even remember now. All he knew was nothing had been right since they returned. He didn’t know how to move them forward, and Paul was avoiding him. He couldn’t even believe those nights under the covers in that cheap hotel had even happened. It was a mistake, some sort of spell cast by the city. He was a fool to believe it meant anything.
John swallowed hard against a rising lump in his throat. He downed the rest of his beer and ordered another immediately.
—
John was stumbling out of the Cavern an hour or so later. He’d had to shake off a few girls eager for attention from the one remaining Beatle they could find mucking about. George had fucked off with Paul, and Pete was nowhere to be found. Maybe he’d followed them too? John couldn’t give a shit. He half considered pulling a bird just for a quick shag to numb his anger. But he knew it wouldn’t be any good. Plus, in the state he was in, he knew exactly what he’d be thinking about. And it wouldn’t help anything. So he resolved to collapse into bed and maybe never get out of it. Let them come to him if they noticed his absence at all.
As he was turning in the direction of the bus stop, he was startled by a rail-thin lad nearly colliding with him as he barreled down the darkened street. John was readying himself to deck the clumsy sod before he recognised the panicked face of his bandmate.
“George?” John sputtered in surprise. “Wha-”
“Sorry,” George panted, “I was hoping you hadn’t left yet. Paul, there were these older blokes—”
John froze.
“What’s happened?” he swallowed, voice tight with fear.
“These older blokes, three of ‘em, well they recognised us. I don’t know, maybe they knew you? We’d never seen ‘em before. They were trying to start trouble.”
John felt panic rising in his chest, “What’s happened to Paul?” he repeated, voice shaking.
“We were ignoring ‘em, about to leave, and one of ‘em started talking about you, and Paul —”
John could’ve sworn his heart had stopped now.
“— turned and punched him, and the bloke was much bigger. And they started fighting and we tried to stop ‘em, Pete and I, but the other two, they joined in, and these were big blokes. We were trying to pull ‘em off him really, but he’s hurt —”
“Where?” John nearly shouted, making George jump.
“We were at the Red — “
“No, where’s Paul now?” John interrupted.
“Still there. Pete’s with him, I think he was going to patch him up a bit. I went to fetch you once we’d finally chased those bastards off.”
John started running in the direction George had come from. The younger lad quickly followed and began to lead the way.
“Does he need a doctor?” John asked, barely finding his voice through panicked breathing.
“I don’t know,” George answered, winded but still clear. “I don’t think so? But since we’re booked all week, maybe? I hope he can play.”
I couldn’t give a fuck about the gigs right now, John thought through his terror. Paul was hurt, and it was his fault. It was all his fault.
He was going to find those bastards that did it and fucking kill them.
The pub was only a few streets down, and John felt blood rushing in his ears, drowning out all sound, as George led him through the back door toward the toilets.
Once they’d entered the dingy men’s room, John’s frantic eyes found Paul seated on a stool that had been pulled close to a sink. The room was lit by a single dim bulb hanging from the ceiling. Pete was leaning against the sink with a kitchen roll and some cotton.
“Paul!” John practically shouted as he rushed to his side. There was blood running down his bandmate's face from a gash near his hairline, dried against his pale skin, but still dripping down his temple. His nose was stuffed with blood-soaked cotton and his lip was busted and swollen. Even through all that, Paul smiled weakly at the sight of John kneeling down beside him. There was a fondness in his eyes John hadn’t seen in weeks. Two weeks, to be precise.
“Hi John,” he said in a slightly strained voice. “Sorry, this all was so stupid of me.”
“You’re not bloody apologizing, okay?” John said firmly as his eyes scanned his friend from head to foot, hands gripping Paul’s shoulders. He hadn’t remembered putting them there. “Are you alright? Where are you hurt?”
“I’m okay.” Paul tried to smile again but faltered.
John brought a hand to Paul’s temple, gently brushing his hair aside to examine the cut underneath. One of the guys must’ve been wearing a ring or something. Paul winced slightly and John pulled his hand back, reaching for some of the cotton piled by Pete.
“He might’ve broke a rib,” said Pete from the sink. “I can’t be sure. But those blokes were kicking his stomach and—”
“Who were they?” John suddenly asked, his voice barely disguising the rising fury in his chest. He felt his throat clench as he grabbed an open bottle of gin from Pete. He turned back to Paul and carefully looked him over again as he dipped the bottle over the lump of cotton.
“John — ahh ” Paul hissed as John brought it to his mate’s temple.
“Fuck. Warn me first, will ya?” Paul grimaced.
“Sorry,” John soothed, dabbing at the gash as gently as he could manage.
“I dunno who they were,” George said. “Teddy types, I’d never seen these ones before though.”
“Please don’t do anything stupid John,” Paul chimed in. “I’ve gotten us in enough of a mess for one night.”
He sounded more than a little scared, clearly sensing the anger boiling in John as he tried to think of every big Teddy type he’d ever seen in the city. He could kill them all, just to be sure those fucks didn’t get away with this.
“I second that,” Pete added. “We've got another gig tomorrow. Can’t have two members black and blue on stage.”
“He’s not playing tomorrow if he’s hurt!” snapped John, making Pete jump.
There was a beat of nervous silence.
“I think I’m okay,” said Paul, looking at John with silent pleading in his eyes.
“We can tell Bob we need a night off,” John said, softer now. “It’s okay.” He hated seeing Paul looking scared, but he couldn’t let him push himself too hard. Not after this.
“Why don’t we ask a doctor before we decide?” George cautiously piped up from behind them.
“I don’t need a doctor,” said Paul, sounding annoyed now. “It was just a scrap. Nothing special.”
“I hate to say this but you definitely lost the scrap,” John replied.
“Sod off,” Paul grumbled. But John could spot the fond smile behind his eyes.
“Can’t think of a doctor who’ll see a pisshead with a bloody nose at two o'clock in the morning,” said Pete from the sink again. John could hear a hint of exasperation in his voice. Suddenly he felt a need to get away from here before he gave their drummer a shiner too.
“Can you walk alright?” he asked.
Paul nodded.
“I’ll take you home and patch you up proper then. We’ll see how you feel in the morning, yeah?”
Paul gave John a small smile and stood up, wincing a little and reaching for his ribs. John felt his heart clench and reached out to steady him. But Paul straightened and started to walk. John knew he was just being stubborn. Fuck, he wanted to punch him again for being so stupid.
Or kiss him. Shit.
—
The journey back to Forthlin Road had passed in silence. They ignored the busman’s stare when they boarded, though John was certain this couldn’t be the first time he’d seen some bloodied drunk board around this time of night. Still, they sat at the very back to avoid attention. The bus was mostly empty, so John didn’t flinch away when Paul rested his head on his shoulder. It occurred to him the poor lad was bleeding all over his jacket, but he bit his tongue. The quiet reassurance of Paul’s weight pressed against him felt too precious to interrupt. Might be the last time he’d get to feel it.
The lights were out at Paul’s, save for the kitchen.
Probably left on by Jim, or more likely Mike, so Paul wouldn’t have to wander blindly for the switch when he made it home. They snuck in and up the stairs as quietly as possible.
Finally in the bathroom with the door shut, Paul sat on the toilet while John dug through the medicine cabinet for bandages and disinfectant. They'd both shed their jackets and shirts in Paul's room, now wearing just their cotton vests. Paul still had some blood dotting his where it had dripped under his collar. They moved in awkward silence, not having spoken a word since they’d left the pub, and John couldn’t be the one to break it, stubborn git he was. Luckily, he didn’t have to be.
“They were talking about you,” Paul spoke softly from where he sat. “Calling you queer. I dunno, I just, had to shut ‘em up?”
John froze in the midst of his rummaging.
“You shouldn’ —,” he swallowed, unsure of what to say. “I don’t want you gettin’ hurt on my account.”
“Well I didn’t plan on getting pummeled,” Paul grumbled.
John turned to him with supplies in hand and started at cleaning the cut on his head again, this time with proper disinfectant.
“Ow!” Paul hissed, “I said I was sorry. You can stop torturing me now.”
John huffed a laugh and moved on to cleaning Paul’s lip, pulling the bloody cotton out of his nose as he did. At least he didn’t seem to be bleeding anymore.
“I’m not a girl you know?” he said, “You don’t have to defend me honor.”
Paul blushed, clear under the bright bathroom light. Christ, how could he still be so pretty in this state?
“I know,” he mumbled under the cotton.
“Promise you won’t be getting into any more scraps now? We’re trying to actually get this band somewhere. And I’m not replacing you.”
John moved on from Paul’s lip, happy to see it wasn’t as busted as it looked at the pub with all the blood cleared away. But even free to speak again, Paul was quiet.
“I wasn’t sure,” he suddenly said, softly, almost a whisper. “I thought you might’ve been done with me, after…” he trailed off.
John’s hand froze where he was applying a plaster to Paul’s head.
Paul had thought John was done with him?
“I,” John swallowed, “I…erhm, no. I wasn’t. I’m not.”
“Oh,” said Paul. John had turned his back to him to stuff the bloody cotton down to the bottom of the bin, safely hidden from view.
“But,” Paul sounded louder now, almost angry, “You wouldn’t talk to me? Wouldn’t be alone with me?”
John suddenly felt anger rising in his own chest. He turned and blinked in disbelief.
“I asked you to write with me today and you told me to fuck off!”
“I didn’t!” Paul sounded indignant.
“You gave me some sorry excuse about cooking dinner and couldn’t even look at me!” John was almost yelling now, caring nothing for waking up Jim. It’d be Paul’s own fault if it happened. “I can still read you better than you think.”
“ Obviously not. I really did have to cook, you know? And you’ve been practically running away every time you’ve seen me since we got back —.”
Paul shut his mouth abruptly.
“You can fucking say it, you know,” John said, quiet now. He leaned into the sink and wrapped his arms around himself, staring at his feet. He had no right to be angry. This was his own fault to begin with. “I know I cocked it up. But we can still be mates, yeah? Nothing has to change.”
Paul looked like he’d just been punched again.
“It was me though. I was the one who…” he trailed off, nervously brushing his fingers against the plaster on his head.
John remembered. How Paul’s lips had suddenly crashed into his under the covers of their little bed in their cheap hotel room. But hadn’t he been the one who had needed that? Who had moved in closer and closer until… There was no way Paul did that because he wanted —
Suddenly Paul’s hand was on John’s arm, pulling him from his thoughts. John unfolded his arms automatically and now Paul was holding his wrist, gripping it insistently.
“I wanted to,” Paul was gazing up at John. “I still want to.”
John felt like he was moving through water. His ears were ringing as he knelt down, now eye to eye with Paul.
He saw Paul smile shyly, and that was enough.
John swallowed a small whimper as he felt something burst inside him. Then he was leaning in and kissing Paul with force.
Paul sighed with what sounded like relief as soon as their lips met. His hands found John’s hair and pulled him closer. John tasted blood from where Paul had been hit, and he tried to pull back a little so as not to hurt him. But Paul just chased John and even bit down slightly on his lower lip to keep him in place. That lit a fire in John and suddenly he didn’t care. He didn’t need to know what this meant or what it made him, what it made them . He could fucking care less. This was them. John and Paul. Kissing. Like they were in Paris again. But no, they were in Liverpool now, and it didn’t fucking matter, it was the same.
John laughed a little into the kiss, unable to hold back his joy. Paul pulled back and smiled.
“Alright?” he asked. His lip was swelling up again and John could now see a bruise forming on his temple. But Paul was still the most beautiful person he’d ever seen.
“Can I kip here tonight?” he blurted out, his eyes struggling to leave Paul’s lips. He leaned back on his heels, grinning like a right idiot.
“‘Course,” Paul gave John a playful smile. “Think I’m gonna kick you out at three o’clock in the morning?”
John shrugged, but before he could think of a response Paul was kissing him again. John kissed back immediately, and then Paul was standing and pulling him up with him, out the door and toward his bedroom. For a fleeting moment, John imagined Jim waking and somehow seeing them. Christ, this was Paul’s house. His dad was sleeping somewhere up here. But the terror of that realization vanished as soon as they found Paul’s room. John shut the door securely behind him just as Paul was wrapping him up in a rough embrace.
Safe in the darkness, they tumbled together onto the small bed. John heard Paul grunt a bit at the impact and suddenly remembered his bruised ribs.
“You okay?” he asked, pulling back.
“Yeah,” Paul murmured, leaning in to capture John's lips.
No, was all his brain could muster, and he pulled back again.
“Wait just a second will you?” he leaned across Paul and switched on the bedside lamp. John didn’t have his glasses so he was fairly blind already, but in the light he could at least see Paul a bit better.
Paul blinked in the sudden brightness. He was lying on his side, teetering close to the edge of the bed with his legs hooked around John’s to keep from rolling onto the floor. John shifted to make room and carefully pulled Paul in to lie flat on his back. Leaning closely over him, John brought a gentle hand to his cheek. He needed to really see Paul, make sure he was really alright.
He softly traced his thumb over the cut on Paul’s temple, the bridge of his nose, his upper lip. Nothing seemed broken or out of place. Paul just gazed up at John with shining eyes, trying to stay still, with a small smile curling up the corners of his lips.
God, he was beautiful, how could he be so beautiful? How could this be real?
John moved his hand down Paul’s side to find the hem of his shirt. Then he moved his fingers cautiously underneath.
Paul shivered slightly, blinking. John could see him so well in the dim light. It still felt scary, this new way of being together. With the lights on, no plausible deniability under dark sheets, no drunken fumbling in a creaky Hamburg bunk. Paul was smiling, lucid and clear-eyed, that same way he had been in Paris.
He paused with his hand nearly on Paul’s chest. “Can I…” he asked softly.
Paul nodded, raising his arms so that John could pull his shirt off for him, wincing as he did but still holding a smile.
John tossed the shirt away quickly to avoid hurting Paul more. He leaned in closely and could see some faint but growing bruises on his stomach and rib cage. Before he knew what he was doing, he started planting soft kisses all over them, from Paul’s stomach all up his side.
Paul giggled a little at the touch, and John smiled against his skin, remembering how ticklish his mate was.
“Does it hurt?” he asked in between kisses.
“No. But if you don’t stop I’m going to start laughing and then it’ll fucking hurt.”
John pulled back and grinned.
“Can’t have that then,” he murmured before returning to the safety of Paul’s lips.
Paul’s hands snaked up John’s back under his shirt, and the cool feeling of hands on his skin was so soothing that he hummed a little, in spite of himself.
He pulled back from where he was leaning over Paul and started to pull his own shirt up. Paul sat up on his elbows and fumbled to help John get it over his head. John tossed it over the side of the bed, and then he pulled Paul by the chin into another kiss, leaning back more as he did to give Paul room to sit upright. The last thing he wanted was to accidentally fall on top of him and fuck up his ribs more. Paul didn’t seem at all concerned by that possibility, sighing into John’s mouth as he wrapped his arms around his upper back. “Okay, hold on a mo,” John laughed against his lips as he carefully moved to lie on his side and guided Paul to lie beside him, safely buttressed by the wall at his back, and now hands and lips were colliding between them. John laced his fingers in Paul’s soft hair and tugged slightly. He remembered that Paul liked that before, and the small moan that erupted from him confirmed he still did.
John felt warmth explode in his chest. Paris hadn’t been a dream. It was real, and it hadn’t vanished. It hadn’t been the spell of a city that had possessed them. The only magic at play had been them. And wherever they were, if they were together, they could have it again.
Suddenly emboldened, he started unbuttoning Paul’s trousers, only slightly distracted by the trail of kisses the boy was now peppering down his neck. Reaching his hand in, he shivered at the realization that his friend was hard. He still couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe Paul wanted him. God, he almost wanted to cry.
Paul softly moaned when John’s fingers brushed the thin cotton he was straining in. Then suddenly John felt clumsy fingers fumbling at his own fly. Paul was already too far gone to make much progress. Overeager git. John chuckled slightly into Paul’s mouth before pulling back and taking over. Paul whined slightly at the loss of John’s hand on him but quickly followed suit. Soon their trousers and belts joined the rest of their clothes, everything but their kecks, on the floor and now Paul was on top of John, dropping kisses all along his jaw, under his ear, his neck. Fuck. John had never been kissed by anyone like that before. The reverence and hunger that he felt from Paul’s lips was unlike anything he’d ever experienced. John knew when they’d first kissed in Paris that he would never be satiated by anyone’s lips after Paul’s. He almost would’ve been satisfied if that was all they had done.
John was so entranced by Paul’s kisses that he gasped in surprise when he felt Paul’s hand dive into his shorts and grasp his cock. He pressed his face into the other boy’s neck to try to keep quiet, vaguely remembering they were far from alone in this house. Paul held him firmly and started working him, making John whimper into his skin. He’d waited almost two weeks for this, and he knew he wouldn’t last long. But he couldn’t forget to finish what he’d started. Cutting through his haze of pleasure, he tried to still his hips and fumbled between them for Paul’s waistband. The lad wasn’t helping much, seeming satisfied enough to toss off his mate while clumsily grinding into his thigh. Christ, it almost seemed desperate, like he didn’t expect the same from him and didn’t care. But that’s not how it had gone in Paris, and John almost ached to think maybe Paul still wasn’t sure, maybe still thought things would be different this time. “Hey, hey now,” he breathed, shifting his leg enough to make room between them and finally found the space to get his hand around Paul’s cock, and began to work him in turn.
“Mmmm…John —” Paul gasped, obviously louder than he had meant. He exhaled, breath shaking against John’s cheek, and then their lips were colliding again. John kissed Paul’s chin, just below his mouth as they began to match each other's rhythm, perfectly in sync. Paul pressed his mouth against John’s, probably to quiet the noises that were escaping from him, and John savored the way Paul’s soft moans vibrated between their mouths.
He could feel the pleasure building inside him, white-hot and blossoming in his lower body. He pulled his mouth away from Paul’s and buried his forehead into the crook of his mate’s neck.
“Fuck. Paul, fuck,” his words dissolved into inarticulate moans as he came. He bucked up into Paul’s hand as he rode it out, dropping sloppy, breathy kisses on Paul’s neck as he melted. He tried to keep his own hand moving all the while, but it didn’t take long. He felt Paul thrust shakily into his hand and make a desperate noise, almost a whimper. John bit down lightly on one spot beneath Paul’s left ear and suddenly Paul was gasping into his neck. “John, I — fuck, John — ” he managed, voice straining not to shout, as John felt him come into his hand. He held onto him as he shook and collapsed onto John’s chest.
They lay there for a while, panting and sticky and dazed. As John began to feel Paul’s heartbeat steady against his own, he reached down and ran lazy fingers through Paul’s hair. His mate smiled softly and hummed at the touch.
John felt a need to fill the silence. But he had no idea what to say. “You okay?” was all his thick head could come up with.
Paul glanced up at him, clearly stifling a laugh.
“Yeah Johnny, I’m okay.”
“Sorry, I just…you’d tell me if you weren’t, right? Okay with…” John glanced vaguely around, suddenly at a loss for words.
Paul furrowed his brow and lifted his head to meet John's eyes.
“I want this John. I’m not telling you again.”
John nodded. He’d have to take him at his word. He still couldn’t believe it, but he wasn’t sure what further proof he needed. His beautiful best mate was lying on his chest, tracing circles on his skin, and choosing him instead of punching him and calling him a fucking queer. He didn’t know how he deserved this, but he knew he couldn’t fuck it up.
“I’m sure I can play tomorrow, Johnny,” Paul spoke softly against John’s skin. “Don’t worry about that, yeah? And please don’t try to find those wankers.”
“You think I can’t take ‘em?” John couldn’t help but be warmed by Paul’s concern, despite his lingering anger toward the attackers.
“I’m taller than you, John,” was all Paul said in reply.
John flicked his ear.
“Ow!”
John chuckled. “Yeah, okay. But if they show their faces ‘round us again, I can’t promise anything.”
Paul didn’t push it any further. Instead, he rolled off and padded to the bathroom. The narrow bed felt vast and empty without his weight. John stared at the ceiling, trying to hold that beautiful, contented feeling. Anxiety stirred in his chest, as if losing the feeling of Paul in his arms meant it had never happened and never would again. But then Paul was back in the room, beautiful in the soft lamplight, shutting the door securely behind him and tossing a flannel to John. He kicked the pile of discarded clothes under the bed in what John guessed was a half-hearted attempt at destroying the evidence. Pretty sure if your dad finds you tangled up in bed with your best mate, the trousers on the floor won’t be the only tell. Still, something about it felt endearing, maybe that Paul wasn’t scared enough to throw him out now that they were finished and back to their senses. As soon as John had finished his bodged attempt at cleaning up, Paul was back in his arms, sighing as he made himself comfortable on John’s chest, hooking his feet securely around his mate’s ankles under the sheets. The way he looked, smiling like a drunk with his cheek on John’s shoulder, was enough to almost believe he felt the same, stupid need to be close, to never ever be further away than this. John stared at him in disbelief, as Paul leaned up on his elbow and switched off the bedside lamp. In the sudden, deep darkness, John felt Paul’s hand find his hair, comfortably tangling up in it.
“‘Night, John,” he whispered.
Overcome with affection, John leaned forward and planted a kiss on Paul’s nose, laughing softly at the way it scrunched in response.
“‘Night, Paulie,” he replied.
As he felt himself beginning to drift off, John reached his hand out and found Paul’s hair, soft against his palm. He tried to count the beating of his best mate’s heart, steady between them, like he was counting sheep. Just to be sure he was really there.